The Lazarus Vault

XXVII

If it wasn’t for what came afterwards, the next month would have been the hardest of Ellie’s life. Every morning she was up at five, at her desk half an hour later chewing on a cereal bar and digesting the overnight news stories. At eight she met with Blanchard and the rest of the bid team, then straight on to twelve hours of meetings, conference calls, emails and spreadsheets. Every night at nine a taxi came to ferry her to the hospital, where she’d spend an hour at her mother’s bedside: at least, having gone private, there were no restrictions on visiting hours. Then another taxi home, poring over the messages coming in on her phone, and perhaps a final hour’s work before two or three in the morning.

She lived in darkness, a world of constant night where she never seemed to sleep. She began walking to the office again, even when it rained, just for ten minutes in the open air. Soon she came to recognise the people who were up at that hour: the streetsweeper on the corner of Gresham Street, making the world new again; the newspaper delivery driver who honked as he drove past; the newsagent lifting the shutter on his shop who never looked at her. Sometimes she remembered to be careful, to watch for following footsteps or shadows in doorways. Most of the time she was too tired to think of it.

She was in limbo, a tight-stretched canvas on which other men wrote their desires. Some days she thought it would tear her in two. She couldn’t leave Blanchard, not while her mother lay sick in his hospital; she couldn’t ignore Harry. She didn’t even know if she was still going out with Doug. She’d told him about her mother, much later than she should have, garbling the story to hide the fact she’d been in Switzerland for Christmas. He’d wanted to go down and visit, but Ellie told him not to. She could tell he was hurt — he started to say something about the state of their relationship, but bit it back. After that, he called once a week to ask how her mother was doing, but otherwise left her alone. The calls were so formal, so measured, she sometimes wondered if she’d broken up with him in a sleep-deprived moment and forgotten it.

As the month wore on, Blanchard began to give her unusual new assignments. One night, she found herself outside an office block in Wapping slipping a stiff-backed envelope through a letterbox. Two days later, a newspaper not usually known for its business coverage printed a story about the Finance Director of Talhouett UK. Under the headline BANKER SPANKER it described, with excellently reproduced photo-graphs and eyewitness testimony, the Soho habits he hadn’t thought to reveal to his wife. He threatened to sue, then resigned to spend more time with his family.

Another day, Ellie spent a morning sitting in the lobby of a hotel on Knightsbridge, watching for the trustee of a well-known pension fund. When he arrived, she followed him into the lift. By the time he reached the seventh floor he owned a new Gucci briefcase so heavy that simply carrying it left him lopsided. A week later, his fund announced that it would use its shareholding to vote in favour of the Saint-Lazare takeover.

If Ellie had stopped to think, she might have considered the implications of what she was doing. But she didn’t. Her working mind had become a balance sheet: things that progressed the takeover; things that impeded it. Cause and effect barely entered the equation; right and wrong not at all. She was too tired.

At least she didn’t have to travel much. Talhouett’s headquarters and most of its business were on the continent, but a quirk of history had left its principal share listing in London. There was only one trip, and like most of her travels, it happened unexpectedly, when Blanchard stormed into her office one afternoon. Ellie had never seen him look so furious.

He knows, she thought. Harry, Newport, everything.

She shuffled papers and tried to look cool. ‘What is it?’

‘A white knight.’ He slammed a folder on her desk. ‘What do you know about the Koenig Group?’

Ellie swallowed as she tried to pull her thoughts together. ‘They’re private equity, aren’t they? Mainly infrastructure and communications deals.’

‘They have tabled a friendly offer for Talhouett. The management is keen — even the German government may consider supporting the bid. One of their politicians thinks we are the unacceptable face of global capitalism.’ He pulled a face.

‘That makes no sense.’ Ellie frowned. ‘We’re already offering more than the accretion/dilution numbers say. Koenig don’t have any complementary businesses to create synergies, and if the German government are on board they won’t let them sack workers or break up the company. What’s in it for them?’

‘This is not a coincidence, Ellie. Michel Saint-Lazare has enemies: one of them has put Koenig up to this. We must go to Paris at once.’

‘I thought Koenig were in Frankfurt.’

‘There is no point speaking to them.’ He picked up his file and turned to go.

‘Koenig want to play the white knight. You know the easiest way to stop a charging knight?’

Ellie looked blank.

‘Kill his horse.’

The Bentley purred down Commercial Road towards Limehouse. Traffic was light, but Blanchard ordered the driver to take a detour. When Ellie glanced up from her laptop, she was surprised to see long rows of warehouses crawling past.

‘Is this the way to the airport?’

Blanchard murmured something about roadworks. Ellie went back to her work. When she looked again, the car had stopped at a dead end in a mazy industrial estate. She assumed they’d taken a wrong turn — but Blanchard was staring out the window with purpose, waiting for something. Had he spoken?

Ellie followed his gaze, through a chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire. Behind it lay a wasteland: charred bricks and twisted metal beams, the remnant of a warehouse gutted by fire. The breeze blew up flakes of ash, as if the fire still lingered, though it must have happened some time ago. The rubble had been bulldozed into heaps, and the scorch marks on the adjacent buildings painted over. At the back of the plot, a derelict sign advertised Logical Components, a monument to the fallen company.

But she’d seen the name before. She remembered her first week at work, a proud old man defying Blanchard’s offer so that his son could inherit a business he didn’t want. The Rosenberg Automation Company, which had streamlined its supply chain to remain competitive. A skip behind the factory, waist deep in cardboard looking at logos on boxes. Logical Components — the choice is Logical.

‘That was the company that sold logic boards to Rosenberg. Their key supplier.’

‘Their factory burned down three months ago. Without their components, Rosenberg were unable to continue manufacturing. Their customers deserted them, the bank denied them credit. They were about to declare bankruptcy when we made one final offer to acquire them. Reduced, obviously. The company was almost worthless.’

Ellie forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

‘Rosenberg was your first deal. I thought you would want to know how it ended.’

‘Not like this.’ She stared at the wreckage, imagining the flames consuming the building. ‘Did you do it?’

‘Of course not.’ He parted his lips, baring his teeth. Daring her to contradict him.

‘But if I did — is it wrong? A company, fundamentally, is merely the sum of its assets. An accumulation of value. Let us say I order our trading division to take an aggressive position regarding a certain corporation. They dump the stock, or short-sell it. A rumour goes around the market and others follow suit. In a matter of minutes I have destroyed hundreds of millions of pounds from a company’s assets. All perfectly legally. Why is it any different if I destroy those assets in the form of buildings and machinery, rather than paper? If I use fire rather than the telephone?’

‘It’s illegal.’

‘Nobody dies. We have a sentimental attachment to physical property, but it is nothing more than an incarnation of wealth. And wealth is the material of capitalism. We create it or we destroy it; we work to acquire it and deny it to our enemies.’

‘And what does all that wealth buy you?’ Ellie murmured — more audibly than she’d intended. Blanchard looked surprised.

‘Power, of course.’

Ellie had always wanted to see Paris, but not like this. They landed in darkness; half an hour later, a limousine was sweeping through the post-rush hour traffic. She felt on edge. Every time she looked back, a black Range Rover with dark tinted windows seemed to be behind them. If they changed lanes, it followed; when they turned, it turned. When a taxi tried to nip in front, it roared forward to close the gap, almost taking off the taxi’s front bumper. The taxi veered away with a squawk of outrage.

‘Is someone following us?’

Blanchard glanced back and smiled. ‘Destrier has arranged a babysitter. He says there is a gang of anarchists who have made threats against us. Nothing specific, but Destrier worries. He’s like a grandmother.’

The Range Rover melted away in traffic as the limousine drew up in the Place Vendôme outside the Paris Ritz. At check-in, their room keys came with a message.

‘Mr Lechowski is awaiting you in the Elton John suite.’

Ellie’s heart sank. ‘Is he advising Koenig now?’

‘He was a natural choice. He already knew the company inside out from trying to buy it.’

‘Is that ethical?’

‘It’s efficient.’

The Elton John suite was more tasteful than Ellie had expected, a soft-lit symphony of pink and ivory. The heels of her shoes almost lost themselves in the carpet. Lechowski was waiting for them in the sitting room. Through an open door, Ellie could see an eight-foot-wide bed capped with a pink canopy.

‘You are looking as beautiful as ever, Ellie,’ he complimented her. ‘May I get you a drink?’

‘Just water.’

He picked up a pink telephone and ordered.

‘This is an unexpected meeting. Your assistant would tell me nothing on the phone, but I assume you have come about Talhouett? You did very well in Luxembourg; we were disappointed not to win. Our bid was only five million euros less than yours.’ He watched Blanchard carefully. ‘But perhaps you knew that already.’

Preternaturally quickly, the waiter came with the drinks — mineral water for Ellie, a brandy for Blanchard and a Jack Daniels for Lechowski.

‘This is about Talhouett,’ Blanchard confirmed.

Lechowski spat out his wad of gum. ‘Off the record?’

‘That depends what we agree.’ Blanchard took out his knife and sliced the end off a cigar. ‘Koenig gains nothing by buying Talhouett. Ellie?’

As briefly as possible, Ellie outlined the case. Lechowski listened without interest, staring the whole time at a point six inches below her throat.

‘And even if Koenig win the company, we will still own ten per cent of it. You will find we can be a very disagreeable shareholder.’

‘I thought Groupe Saint-Lazare owned that stake.’

Blanchard swatted the objection away. ‘We think the same on this.’

‘As ever.’

‘Koenig have no shares to offer, so they will have to pay cash. In this market, only a fool pays cash. Especially one with debts to service.’

A pause. Lechowski sipped his whiskey. Blanchard exhaled a cloud of smoke.

‘Eh bien.’ Blanchard gazed at one of the pictures on the wall, an extravagant painting of a space rocket. ‘When I was a child I loved astronomy. Orion, Pegasus, Andromeda — I could plot every one. Back then, space seemed so exciting. Now, it seems more about bureaucracy than heroism. Did you hear about the landing craft NASA sent to Mars?’

Lechowski shook his head.

‘A vehicle the size of a vacuum cleaner, but they spent more to build it than you or I would spend on a whole company. Ten years to prepare it, three more to fly however many hundred million kilometres through space. And when it arrived, it crashed into the planet at three hundred miles an hour. Do you know why?’

If Lechowski knew, he wouldn’t deny Blanchard his punchline.

‘Because the scientists made their calculations in centimetres, but programmed the lander in inches.’

They both laughed. Ellie looked between them and wondered where Blanchard was going.

‘There is another story like this, which perhaps you know,’ Blanchard continued. ‘A German private equity firm who wanted to buy a Hungarian property developer. They opened the books and did the due diligence. They put it into spreadsheets, models, valuations — all by the book. They bought the company for a handsome premium — they were so eager to get into the booming Hungarian property market. And then —’ Blanchard smiled. ‘They found out that the assets they paid for in euros had actually been quoted in forints.’

He laughed again. This time, Lechowski didn’t join in.

A long roach of ash dangled from the end of Blanchard’s cigar. He rolled it off in the ashtray and took a sip of brandy.

‘Of course it is just a story. I mention it only because Michel Saint-Lazare has always wanted to expand into Hungary. If any of your clients had assets they were looking to sell, he would be eager to deal with them.’

Lechowski had gone very still, like a cat watching a bird in a tree. Ellie could almost see his jaw trembling.

‘How much does Saint-Lazare have to spend?’

‘Maybe two, three hundred million euros. Of course, he would be relying on the profits from Talhouett to fund it.

Lechowski took a long sip of his Jack Daniels. The glass came away empty. Ellie refilled it from the bottle that room service had thoughtfully left on the sideboard. Playing waitress seemed to be the only reason she was there.

‘I will tell you a secret,’ Lechowski announced. He had recovered some of his poise. ‘The Koenig management do not want to buy Talhouett. They are only doing it because the board have ordered it. But the board do not really want it either. There is one man, Herr Drexler, who has forced this deal on them. Unfortunately, he is the chairman. It will take forceful advocacy to persuade them to change course. It can be done, but it will take a personal appeal.’

‘Your bank will get its commission.’

‘My bank, yes.’

‘Three per cent could be six million euros. If you originate the deal, most of that will find its way into your pocket. You will certainly be able to afford your new Porsche.’

‘Actually, I prefer Aston Martin. My colleagues say I am perverse, but there is something so oxymoronic about English craftsmanship.’

Lechowski drained his glass again. When Ellie went to fill it, he held it so she had to bend low in front of him to reach. His knee brushed her leg.

‘I am a romantic, Blanchard. I prefer English cars to German, and American bourbon to Scotch. And a warm bed to a cold one.’

He smiled at Ellie. For a moment, even the smoke seemed to freeze in mid-air. Ellie gave Blanchard a desperate look and found no comfort in his eyes. He lifted himself out of his chair.

‘I think I will go to bed. It has been a long day. He gave Ellie a bleak smile. ‘I will leave you two to sort out the details of the agreement.’

Lechowski stood to shake his hand. ‘I must just excuse myself for one moment,’ he told Ellie. ‘I hope you will be here when I come back.’

Blanchard delayed until Lechowski was out of the room.

‘Lechowski was never meant to play the white knight,’ he observed.

The smoke was making Ellie’s eyes water. She felt hot, unwell. ‘Do you really —?’

‘Do whatever you have to.’

Blanchard’s phone started buzzing the moment they were off the plane. He listened, smiled, said a few words and hung up.

‘That was the office. Koenig have just issued a press release to retract their bid. They say the market conditions are not favourable. The Talhouett board will meet tomorrow, and everyone expects they will announce that they have accepted our bid. I don’t know how you did it.’

He slid an arm around Ellie’s waist and leaned in to kiss her. But she twisted away, slipping out of his reach.

‘Would it bother you if I said I’d slept with him?’

‘Of course.’ Blanchard met her gaze frankly. ‘I am a man; I feel jealousy. You are very precious to me. But that is personal. This is business. And in business a certain ruthlessness is admirable.’

He inclined his head, waiting for her to speak.

‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ she said. ‘I told him I found him attractive, but I knew his reputation. I told him if I went to bed with him and then he broke our agreement, no one would ever take me seriously again. I said he could have me when the deal was complete.’

An admiring smile flickered across Blanchard’s face. ‘He will hold you to that,’ he warned.

I’m not planning on being around to find out.

She let him kiss her as they waited outside the airport for the car. When they’d got in, she took her phone out of her bag and turned it on. Even in the short time she’d been in the air, a few dozen e-mails had come through. She read through them, half-listening to Blanchard as he talked about celebrations, about where they could get a table at such short notice.

‘When the contracts are signed the whole bank will celebrate,’ he told her. ‘Tonight it will be just you and me.’

The last message told her she had a voicemail waiting. She dialled in and listened in silence.

‘Probably it’s Lechowski asking you out,’ Blanchard joked. He stroked a strand of hair back from her cheek; he reached across to kiss her again, then paused. He must have read it in her face.

‘What is it?’